


Dreaming In Color

by starswan



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Dancing, Emotional Hand Job, F/M, Fairy Hate Sex, Fantasizing about others during sex, Foot Massage, Frustrated Gentleman, I am such Trash, In a Greenhouse, Lost Hope, M/M, Mind Games, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Serious UST, Slight Clothing Porn, Slight Glove Porn, Stalking, Staring, Thistletrash, slight denial, trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 11:42:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4959340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starswan/pseuds/starswan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of color-themed vignettes centering around several encounters at Lost Hope, with continuity. The Gentleman waits each night for Stephen to give him the slightest sign that his affections are reciprocated, but feels increasingly thwarted deciding to vent his frustrations and seek his pleasure elsewhere...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red

**Red**

The strains of two violins and a solitary flute sound far off to the ears of the Gentleman and his present companion, a mere room away from the evening’s revels. Of course, they might sound far off even were they in the midst of the dance given their current activities. The Gentleman runs a hand down the spine of the other fay, whose complexion is warm, whose blood runs nearly red.

 

 

His skin is a rich bronze, and the hair at the nape of his neck, a shimmering ginger that contrast sharply with the fairy king’s glacial features, his extreme want of pigment as the fingers of his other hand knead at his entrance. They prise and sink and slip, stretching him tortuously slowly. He is bent double, his thin, sun-kissed hands clutching an ebony table for support as he emits something between a screech and a moan that makes the Gentleman frown at its volume, flattered though he is that his attentions are eliciting such a pronounced response. 

He leans over him, runs his tongue over his heated skin until his lips graze his ear. "Come now, my petit beauty. We have barely finished with the first order of business. However will you behave once I am buried inside of you?" His words are like silk though not as soft. The flame-haired fairy groans appreciatively, his legs quivering, his swollen cock dripping onto the marble floor beneath them.

The Gentleman peers across the large sitting room, his sharp eyes staring furtively through a gap in the two doors where the flicker of the tallow candles is just perceptible. He closes his eyes as he frees himself with a languid flourish, tries to feel the bounds of the house for one presence in particular as he strokes his length, sees the familiar dark, elegant features calmly regarding him on the backs of his eyelids, listening to him, soothing simply by standing near to him. The Gentleman sighs as he positions himself at his entrance. _Why has he not arrived?_ He fucks the other fairy shallowly at first, glances through his pale eyelashes at the haze of caramel colored flesh moving beneath him, feels him tense and squeeze causing the Gentleman to gasp as he thrusts a little more deeply before pulling out almost entirely.

His partner whines and trembles, begins to beg. The Gentleman loves it when they beg.

He runs a hand up his neck, threads his fingers gently through his hair before curling them around a few strands and pulling hard enough to make him yell. The Gentleman pushes in again a bit more roughly, not so slow or considerate until he is filling him completely. He might be tearing at him a little. His kind are not quite so stone cold and hard as the King’s more elevated race though they are just as resilient and spilling over with magic.

Stephen's face floats up in his mind's eye again. He is smiling a little whilst perusing the floor, his shy, beautiful Stephen. He slams his eyes shut as he savagely drives into the ginger haired fay, soaking in his cries and his slight movements which send sparks of pleasure across his translucent skin. But the wrecked voice that tickles his ears isn't as rich or warm, his shoulders not as rounded, his aura not as kind and all-discerning.

The Gentleman finishes inside him with an angry moan before pulling away and pressing the backs of his hands to his eyelids.


	2. Blue

**Blue**

On this particular chill evening, Stephen is walking quite alone in the dark wood leading to Lost Hope house. His breath leaves puffs of fog in front of his face. A light breeze tickles the back of his neck, creeps into his shirtsleeves through his coat like fingers, and brushes against his cheek causing all of the little hairs on his body to stand on end. Stephen's eyes focus in the encompassing gloom and he sees the Gentleman standing a few feet away. His stark, sculpted face is like a flame flickering in the shadows. He is swathed in a long, opulent,  velvet coat the colour of a Winter morning beset by ponderous clouds. The colors of the fabric seem to scatter and then merge again, swirling to match the Gentleman's brooding stare. This more than the earlier probing wind causes the warmth to drain from Stephen's face as if his blood were fleeing within. He can feel himself chasing it, trying to pull away, trying to run from the fairy's inevitable presence whilst standing as still as a portrait.

With his unearthly friend, there is always a seam of barely controlled menace lurking beneath his smiles and heartfelt benevolence. But this evening he looks especially vexed. Stephen hesitates before approaching him and is surprised when the Gentleman rapidly moves into his space and threads an arm through his, as carefully and warmly as ever, mindful of his more fragile humanity. There is a peculiar, frantic edge to it as his grip tightens, not painfully but demonstrably. The Gentleman strokes his arm and croons a good evening, pelting him with his usual questions about his day and his life though Stephen cannot imagine that his servant's duties could possibly be all that interesting to a fairy king.

The Gentleman turns Stephen to face him and embraces him suddenly, his cool breath like the cool wind, tickles his neck as if he is pausing to press a kiss. The Gentleman withdraws, but his fingers linger on his face like a spider's legs. Stephen is used to these touches, is practiced at calmly receiving them though he is barely holding himself together at the moment underneath his various layers of seeming calm.

The possibility of intimacy hovers over them like a soft threat every evening and Stephen finds himself holding his breath until it burns.


	3. Green

**Green**

Stephen has danced until his feet are sore, though every morning when he awakes he finds the soreness has magically vanished. Tonight the Gentleman is scarce again. Lately, he will dance with a partner and then both he and his choice, sometimes male, sometimes female, will disappear to parts unknown. It troubles him. He finds himself imagining sordid scenarios that refuse to fully unravel behind his eyes into a proper scene before he tramples them back down again. He begins to feel lonely. Why is he not here bending his ear like always?

Once he glimpsed Lady Pole walking across the hall, her usual light, fluid gait a bit slower, a bit uneven as if she were laboring under some invisible substance. He caught her eye and she flushed scarlet whether with anger or embarrassment, he could not discern before she retreated to another room with one or two other fairy guests.

Stephen's stomach churns, but he is not hungry. He does not want to sample the wines or taste of the fruit on offer in celebration of what, he is not sure. It might be the coming of Autumn or else the anniversary of a particular battle at which the Gentleman was, of course, victorious. But there are no processions planned. That in itself is odd. He is usually alight with enthusiasm for grim marches throughout the house carrying tattered standards of old kingdoms long dust.

More time passes and Stephen feels genuinely ill, the enchanted atmosphere is doing nothing to mollify his nerves. He feels nearly as heavy as when he is at home during the day. Home. Lately, Harley Street does not feel like home. No place does.

Another fraction of an hour, though it feels far longer, and the Gentleman finally emerges. He is trailing a few feet behind a slender man with short, dark hair who appears mildly dazed, though not far enough behind for it to be coincidence. Stephen's rare temper flares a bit. He feels like reprimanding the Gentleman, as if he were one of his own staff, for going away and not telling him! He suddenly loathes the stranger, who laughs like silvery bells with his dancing partner, for taking up the fairy king's time.

But as soon as the Gentleman spies Stephen, his eyes light up and he hastens to his side with quicker than human speed.

Upon returning from his mysterious forays, the Gentleman's attentions to Stephen are fonder than usual, his hands press, his stares linger.


	4. Brown

**Brown**

 

A young woman, the spirit of a birch tree, a nymph with the large brown eyes of a doe, and greenish curls spilling onto ivory shoulders that glow in the candelight emits a giggle as the Gentleman spins her around through the crowd of dancers. She is a recent invite and though a little aloof at first, consented to attend the ball. He insisted that she wear an opulent dress the color of an autumn wood with thin straps and elaborate ties that drape and accentuate her long, elegant arms. The birch nymph is not his only new recruit though he has spent most of the evening dancing with her.

 

A few paces off Stephen Black has been monopolized by the lady with shimmering beetles in place of hair though he steals, regular furtive glances at the other couple curious to know what is so very special about this young woman. The Gentleman feels Stephen's notice as a prickle at the back of his neck and smiles to himself.

 

"Are you indulging in a private joke?" his partner asks a bit haughtily, so unlike her girlish laughter from earlier.

 

The Gentleman schools his face into something he hopes is aloof, but which more closely resembles contempt before deciding to answer.

 

"No, my dear. A thought occured to me and it made my lips turn upward, but I assure you, it is no laughing matter," he finishes coldly grasping her waist a bit tightly.

 

His gesture has the opposite intended effect causing her to flush and run her hand from his shoulder to his neck slowly, flirtatiously. The Gentleman really is in no mood for this sort of behavior and resolves to put her off just as soon as decorum and the music allow for it, when a turn about the floor brings him within view of Stephen, several dancers away but definitely staring. He looks to be on the verge of saying something or calling out, but suddenly becoming conscious of what he is doing, he breaks eye contact and appears to admire the colors on his dance partner's dress.

 

The Gentleman huffs.

 

The nymph has been chattering to him inanely, but he has not heard a single word out of her charcoal colored lips for several minutes. He is moving in the appropriate direction at the appropriate times, but his head swivels searching for his friend.  Has he left the room?

 

At length, he spies Stephen off to the side talking to Lady Pole. What on earth they should find so interesting, he cannot say. It is not as if they do not see one another during the daytime! This deeply bothers him for some reason. Lady Pole nods and then breaks their conversation to look up at the Gentleman before walking away. Now Stephen is looking over at him again, as if on the verge of accosting them. The Gentleman would hold his breath if he were particularly conscious of such a thing. Instead he returns the stare shutting out the music, the nymph's voice, the brush of other dancers who drift a bit too close on occasion. He is fixated on his soft, brown gaze which calls to mind damp earth steaming in the morning sun and a whiff of men's cologne-bergamot, sage and something else spicey and warm.

 

If the Gentleman did not know any better, he would wonder if Stephen possessed any fairy blood with eyes like those. He might be leaning out of the nymph's embrace slightly, one foot stepping gingerly out of place. If he truly wished it, he could be at Stephen's side in less than the time it takes a human heart to pump blood out to the fingertips, which fingertips would be at his waist, their breath mingling, a step, a turn, a rich burst of laughter, deeper, warmer, human.

 

The Gentleman waits. Stephen's lips part, then close. Finally, he looks away and hurries back onto the ballroom floor away from him where he is quickly picked up by one of the fairy king's cousins who begins to take a turn with him at the start of the next set.

 

Feeling petulant and excessively restless, the Gentleman leads his partner away without a word and stalks out of the ballroom looking over his shoulder to find Stephen watching. He again feels the prickle at his back as they round a corner and disappear into the house. He takes them as far away as they can reasonably get, until the music is no longer audible and he is certain that he will be blissfully unaware of the dance.

 

The door closes shut behind him and scarcely a couple of minutes pass before the Gentleman has the nymph pinned against the far wall, her ties undone to reveal her small breasts, his tongue savagely prying open her mouth. She accepts his advances fairly coolly, but without the slightest protest as if it were the most natural thing in the world that they should wind up together like this. She is, after all, surpassingly lovely, is she not?

 

He kisses her angrily, holding her neck in his hands firmly, but not so much that it hurts her. The birch nymph threads her spindly fingers through his hair, caressing his scalp as he nibbles on her lips. He runs a hand lightly across one of her breasts causing her to arch backward and shudder, skips over it and slides down the front of her dress pulling up the hem and snaking underneath.

 

The Gentleman pries apart her lower lips and slips a couple of fingers across her clit before delving further. His hand slowly glides and presses, teasing her moist overly sensitive flesh, though she remains relatively quiet throughout the encounter. This begins to unnerve him. She could not be silent at the dance; her laughs were shrill and vexing!  So he runs his tongue back across her lips, plunging in and out of her mouth in time with his hand below reaching inside of her. This finally drags a long, drawn out moan from off her chest.  She reaches down to massage the front of his breeches, but he bats her hand away. He is only half hard which makes her frown against his lips. He draws back and attempts to lose himself in her large, brown eyes so that he will not notice her sneering mouth.

 

Even a couple of corridors and several flights of stairs away, he no longer sees her, but Stephen in her dark gaze looking over at him questioningly. He drinks in that accusing stare as he undoes the front of his pants, as he draws himself out and withdraws his hand from her. His fingers are shimmering and wet as he folds his fingers around himself and strokes his cock. She is still wearing the same icey smile, her legs wrapped tightly about his hips whilst he fucks her, all the while drowning in her eyes.


	5. White

**White**

"Where were you, sir?" Stephen inquires once he feels the familiar brush of the other's arm against his. He has become accustomed to the Gentleman suddenly appearing out of thin air by his side at a moment's notice. But his ethereal host has been popping off and then returning with greater frequency lately, sometimes several times in one evening. And the Gentleman always returns smelling odd or different, as if he has been pressed up against some species of exotic plant out in the gardens. Stephen can smell it on him as he turns his head. He nearly brushes noses with the Gentleman who quickly turns his attention to something on Stephen's jacket.

The Gentleman smells like roses and something else faintly metallic.

"Oh! How kind of you to notice my absence, dear Stephen," he says, running his fingers down his front as if to smooth a wrinkle, though of course there are none as Stephen would never neglect his person and certainly not before their evening appointment at the ball. "I had some business to attend to," he finishes, trailing off at the end, sounding wistful.

"Come! Do sit down with me for awhile so that we may talk. I want to hear all about your daytime adventures, Stephen," he adds smirking.

Stephen had spent the better part of the day evading random gift bearers in the street. He had finally been forced to relent and to trudge warily back home to Harley Street weighed down with various parcels.

The two sit on a sofa off to the side. The fairy slides over until their legs are touching.

The Gentleman seems to take whatever opportunity presents itself to draw physically nearer to Stephen in so much as propriety will allow. If they stand side by side, he might cross his arms and inch closer until their shoulders lightly touch. He is forever arranging and rearranging his neckcloth careful to allow his hands to brush the skin of Stephen's neck in the resituating. Or else he appears suddenly behind him and presses into his back, hissing into his ear about something or other in front of them at the dance, or occurring elsewhere. He pauses in his vexed speeches to knead Stephen's shoulders. Once he even laced their fingers together before they embarked from Harley Street where he insisted on coming especially to collect Stephen.

The Gentleman always pursues Stephen Black with touches both gentle and furious, but Stephen Black might as well be made of stone, curiously warm, pliant stone for all that he reacts to his advances.


	6. Purple

**Purple**

It takes Stephen a moment to notice that the Gentleman has somehow changed his attire, either once he reappeared or just before they began chatting. Or was it during an interim of time when their conversation slowed and then paused into companionable silence? So much of Lost Hope is woven together with magic. And if the Gentleman suddenly found his coat unsatisfactory, why he could always change it in the blink of an eye.

He is wearing the coat of storms from the other evening. Stephen is quite fond of it. It might just be his favorite. It is an attractive shape and hangs elegantly accentuating the Gentleman's tall, slender figure, specifically his hips. Sir Walter so lacks any interest whatsoever in dressing fashionably, it distresses Stephen. First and foremost, it is rather dull to go shopping for the same things, monotonous to always be setting out the same offerings, and tedious attempting to make more stylish suggestions to someone so steadfast and stubbornly ordinary. Or it could be that Stephen's tastes have changed, turned to the more exotic and eerily refined. The fabric looks like velvet made liquid. He watches it undulating as if in a light breeze every time that the Gentleman shifts in his seat, his legs crossing and uncrossing. He catches himself staring. 

 

The Gentleman is fidgeting and he never fidgets.

"Stephen...I wonder if I might ask you to do me a small favor," the Gentleman begins sounding vaguely apprehensive or perhaps it is Stephen's imagination. He is not making eye contact with Stephen, instead perusing the rather ornate looking ceiling.

"What is it, sir?" Stephen asks wondering what favor he could possibly do for someone who is near omnipotent, and whether or not it is actually "small".

The Gentleman looks straight at him when he replies, "I do not wish for you to get the wrong impression, sweet Stephen. I could call on anyone to do this and they would be only too happy to perform the task. But I did happen to notice that you have quite a deft touch in all things."

"Sir?" he asks rather more curious.

"…which is why I would like you to massage my feet for me. Do you know of this practice? I cannot help but think that you'd be particularly skilled..."

"Well, I am no expert, sir, but I did massage Sir Walter's feet once when he had complained of pains from standing about all day down in town. And he had no cause to regret it and seemed rather relaxed afterward."

Stephen wasn't quite sure why he had felt it necessary to volunteer that information except that it was a point of pride in a job well done. Yes, that was it.

"Oh, Stephen! You absolute jewel! I was hoping that you would say something like that!"

The Gentleman reaches over to grab Stephen and pulls him away to another part of the house in one fluid motion that nevertheless renders Stephen light-headed. A large parlor seems to spring up suddenly on the other side of a wall that had been a set of long, tall windows with a view to the bleak outside only a moment ago. Stephen feels the familiar press of fingers on his elbow, his chilly breath brush the shell of his ear as he is directed pointedly to a settee in the middle of an opulent room. The walls are pale, but do not seem to be made of wood painted nor of marble, but of something like stone with an unearthly sheen and veins of lavender running throughout. Pale light streams in from high windows bathing various corners of the room in grey-violet shadows. The cushions that the Gentleman goes to sit upon are a deep plum.

He notices something about Stephen’s person and frowns, standing back up.

"What is it, sir?" asks Stephen wondering if perhaps he missed his cue to sit.

"Those gloves that you have on, Stephen, the ones that your perfidious employer makes you wear for formal human gatherings. I do not like them."

He looks down at himself noticing them for the first time since he walked around the corner earlier in the day onto an ordinarily busy street full of carriages and people that then inexplicably terminated at a copse of overhanging, wild trees.

"Ah, yes. Sir Walter had some guests at the house earlier this evening and…."

The Gentleman is in front of him before he is able to utter another syllable, his expression is both indignant and hopeful.

"Please, my lovely Stephen, allow me to divest you of these servant's _things_!"

Stephen does not feel equal to speaking, any words he might utter being inadequate to either dissuade him from the task, or convey his sentiments towards so intimate a gesture, so he just nods.

Looking positively thrilled, the Gentleman slowly, methodically, starting at his wrists, peels first one glove and then the other, ever so gently, the smooth white fabric giving way to his long, dark fingers by degrees. The Gentleman's face looks like that of a starving man set before a feast as the second glove comes off all the way. He drops them to the floor like something particularly foul one might find in a rubbish heap.

He then takes Stephen's bared hands in his, running his fingers down the backs reverently before flipping them over palm upward. He bends forward, his fair head brushing Stephen's nose and Stephen can feel his breath sweep over his skin a moment before his lips make contact. His mouth may be cool, but every bit as wet as a human's. Stephen shivers. He has lost track of why they are even here.

"Sir," he manages at last.

"Let us go out to the gardens, loveliest Stephen, where we can be comfortable and nobody will dare think to disturb us,” the Gentleman half sighs as he lifts his head to peruse Stephen from head to toe.

Stephen has felt himself flush in the odd fairy's presence more in a handful of years than in all of the years of his prior life combined.


	7. Black

**Black**

The Gentleman lies back on a long, low divan. Filtered light casts patterns from the mullioned windows of the greenhouse upon his ivory face. It is night and though the moon is full, Stephen is at a loss to explain where all of the light is coming from, more like an overcast day than nighttime. His hands are slick with a dark, oily substance handed to him out of a bottle that smells of pomegranates, anise, and coal.

The Gentleman's eyes close as Stephen wraps his thumb and fingers around the fairy's big toe and kneads the balls of his feet. The Gentleman's feet are rather long and thin, like the rest of him. His toes curl at the ends slightly and his tendons leading down protrude slightly amidst a tiny latticework of blue. His skin is practically translucent in spots.

Stephen massages one foot and then the other politely and efficiently, at least until the Gentleman, who up until this point has been curiously mute and quite still, lets out something like a whimper from the back of his throat, the lines of his face soften, suffused with obvious enjoyment. It stirs an impulse in Stephen who presses more firmly, lingeringly, pulling at the pads of his feet, stretching his toes to see if he can draw out more expressions on the Gentleman's face.

Stephen turns to the side, starts at the heal of one foot, pulls and pushes his fingers all along the curved underside, his thumb running along the top to terminate at the little toe and the ball at the edge which he gives a gentle tug. The Gentleman's eyes open a fraction, but his mouth goes slack, and he looks transported by the sensation of Stephen's strong, supple hands.

"Steph-" he begins but is cut off when Stephen runs his slippery fingers back up to his digits, lacing them in between his toes and working them back and forth slowly.

"Where did you learn such curiously stimulating techniques , Stephen?" The Gentleman mumbles a bit distractedly.

"I did not learn them anywhere, sir. I just, well, what I mean to say is. I don't know what I mean to say. It seemed that this might, " he pauses before attempting to utter the next bit out loud. "I thought that it might feel pleasant to you, sir."

Stephen's hands stop working abruptly as he waits for the Gentleman's reaction, staring over at a nearby rose bush, contemplating the serrated edges of its rich, green leaves rather than daring to gaze over at his face in the growing darkness. Stephen feels his foot slip from out of his grasp, the cushions dip, and a hand turn his cheek toward him.

"Stephen, look at me…"

Stephen slowly turns his head, his eyes start at his chin and hesitantly make their way up to his eyes. The greeny-blue is now a thin line clinging to an inky blackness. The Gentleman's pupils have all but devoured his irises and he suddenly looks like what a wolf must when it is crouched in the dark attempting to draw in as much light as possible so that it can more clearly glimpse its prey.

He moves his hand rather slowly. To him, Stephen looks very much the embodiment of the shy lord of the wood, the stag with its regal but nervous stance, its sympathetic brown eyes scanning the trees. But then it draws itself up. Does it not have swift legs and hard hooves, keen hearing, and a crown of antlers?

The Gentleman's fingers alight on his cheek as they are wont to do, but softer, pulling his face closer. And when he speaks his voice is low, almost a whisper.

"Do you know what you have done to me, dear Stephen? How I search the crowd for you each and every night impatient for your arrival?"

Stephen sighs, tentatively places a hand at his shoulder, afterall, was he not running those hands all over his feet suggestively moments ago? This is positively innocent by comparison. His fingers leave traces of unguent on the Gentleman's clothes, but he seems far from caring.

"For I, sir? …when there are so many others that you, that you have..."

The Gentleman places a finger to his lips. "I do not want those others, Stephen. They were merely a temporary distraction while I …waited. And waited..."

Stephen is not sure how to react to this news, but his body is. He feels hot and prickly all over. Was it truly jealousy that he felt when he saw them together?

"I am sorry, sir. I had no idea," he utters swallowing the last word.

"None? Are you sure about that my dear, sweet Stephen?" he says pulling Stephen down to him, running his less than steady hands along his front to rest at the tops of his breeches. Giving vent to his excited state, he captures Stephen's lips in a kiss before either one of them can think better on it. His lips are cool and cooler still since they have been outside in the gardens for what seems like hours, but even the cold can burn and Stephen fights two incompatible urges as he always must in the fairy's presence: flee or be consumed.

Having made his choice for this one night at least, Stephen allows his hands to wander freely receiving many encouraging sighs from the Gentleman who has evidently decided to ditch decorum and is slowly falling apart under his touches. He is not like any of the Gentleman’s other lovers, some of whom border on the demanding, none of whom seem particularly excited to be with him, not like Stephen whose strong fingers are both eloquent and needy. He shall have to rectify this situation.

Threading his fingers in the gap between them, what little is left for Stephen to breath, the Gentleman finds his waist and slips a hand below it, allowing his nails to lightly graze his skin, waiting. Stephen moans against his lips and rocks his hips slightly. Taking that for an affirmation, he unbuttons him pushing his clothes down his finely made, shapely legs. He can find time to admire him even now.

Stephen’s pants disappear with his jacket until he is lying in nothing but his shirtsleeves, trembling in the night air. It has grown quite dark, but he can just make out the fairy's luminous face in the shadows as they lean against something soft.

The Gentleman takes him in hand whilst holding his face with the other and whispers to him again. Stephen leans his cheek into his caress, brushes his lips against the Gentleman's fingers as he strokes him achingly slowly.

"Oh, my beautiful Stephen, has no one ever touched you in this way? My poor, unloved, sweet, kind, loyal…Stephen," he says squeezing the tip of his cock on the upward stroke at each pause causing Stephen to melt underneath him.

"For I have so longed to touch you. You can scarcely conceive how much I want you."

The Gentleman runs his thumb along his lower lip before kissing him again thoroughly smothering Stephen's moans as his grip tightens, hastens. Stephen makes to speak, but the Gentleman shushes him again anticipating his desire to serve, his protest, can hear the words bubbling up on the surface of his thoughts, half form, half feeling.

"I only want your pleasure, Stephen, " the Gentleman purrs before lifting him back up gently into a sitting position. 

He goes down on his knees before him.

_Yes, please. Devour me in kind. Leave nothing here for anyone to find._


End file.
